 | Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover |  |
PADDY'S PASTORAL RHAPSODY.
When Molly th' other day, sir,
Was makin' of the hay, sir,
I ask'd her for to be my bride,
And Molly she began to chide;
Says she, “You are too young, dear Pat.”
Says I, “My jew'l, I'll mend o' that.”
“You are too poor,” says she, beside,
When to convince her, then, I tried,
That wealth is an invintion
The wise should never mintion,
And flesh is grass, and flowers will fade,
And its better be wed than die an owld maid.
Was makin' of the hay, sir,
I ask'd her for to be my bride,
And Molly she began to chide;
81
Says I, “My jew'l, I'll mend o' that.”
“You are too poor,” says she, beside,
When to convince her, then, I tried,
That wealth is an invintion
The wise should never mintion,
And flesh is grass, and flowers will fade,
And its better be wed than die an owld maid.
The purty little sparrows
Have neither ploughs nor harrows,
Yet they live at aise and are contint,
Bekase, you see, they pay no rint;
They have no care nor flustherin',
About diggin' or industherin'
No foolish pride their comfort hurts—
For they eat the flax and wear no shirts—
For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.
Have neither ploughs nor harrows,
Yet they live at aise and are contint,
Bekase, you see, they pay no rint;
They have no care nor flustherin',
About diggin' or industherin'
No foolish pride their comfort hurts—
For they eat the flax and wear no shirts—
For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.
Sure nature clothes the hills dear,
Without any tailor's bills, dear,
And the bees they sip their sweets, my sowl,
Though they never had a sugar bowl,
The dew it feeds the rose of June—
But 'tis not with a silver spoon:
Then let us patthern take from those,
The birds and bees, and lovely rose,
For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.
Without any tailor's bills, dear,
And the bees they sip their sweets, my sowl,
Though they never had a sugar bowl,
The dew it feeds the rose of June—
But 'tis not with a silver spoon:
Then let us patthern take from those,
The birds and bees, and lovely rose,
For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.
Here's a cup to you my darlin',
Though I'm not worth a farthin',
I'll pledge my coat, to drink your health,
And then I'll envy no man's wealth;
For when I'm drunk I think I'm rich,
I've a feather bed in every ditch,
I dhrame o' you, my heart's delight,
And how could I pass a pleasanter night?
For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.
Though I'm not worth a farthin',
I'll pledge my coat, to drink your health,
And then I'll envy no man's wealth;
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I've a feather bed in every ditch,
I dhrame o' you, my heart's delight,
And how could I pass a pleasanter night?
For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.
| Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover | |